#Human -machine interaction

[xunyi1984]

Brainpiece interface-Future vision of human-machine interaction: repair damaged neurhasis, stimuli and enhancement of brain region potential

The medical community has already introduced brain equipment. It is a new type of technical brain -machine interface (BCI) human -computer interaction. It is opening a very different neurons exploration.BCI is also known as a brain interface. It is a chip implanted in the brain tissue that provides direct communication between the brain and the computer and the mechanical limb. BCI bypasses…

[hussyknee]

I'm really not a villain enjoyer. I love anti-heroes and anti-villains. But I can't see fictional evil separate from real evil. As in not that enjoying dark fiction means you condone it, but that all fiction holds up some kind of mirror to the world as it is. Killing innocent people doesn't make you an iconic lesbian girlboss it just makes you part of the mundane and stultifying black rot of the universe.

"But characters struggling with honour and goodness and the egoism of being good are so boring." Cool well some of us actually struggle with that stuff on the daily because being a good person is complicated and harder than being an edgelord.

Sure you can use fiction to explore the darkness of human nature and learn empathy, but the world doesn't actually suffer from a deficit of empathy for powerful and privileged people who do heinous stuff. You could literally kill a thousand babies in broad daylight and they'll find a way to blame your childhood trauma for it as long as you're white, cisgender, abled and attractive, and you'll be their poor little meow meow by the end of the week. Don't act like you're advocating for Quasimodo when you're just making Elon Musk hot, smart and gay.

[thedeafprophet]

one thing with me and the dawn machine is I just so endleslly want to know more about it

not just about the people swayed by it, not just about its construction, not just about the damage it caused, not just about its results..

but im curious about its anger, its rage, about its ability to think. of what it means to be created in such a way, to exist so powerfully in false glory in a way that dooms you to your own lack of understanding and suffering....

[daintydoilypon]

"What do you want to do for your birthday, Dainty?"

Me:

"...Nuthin'."

[sponfawn]

MTH: The Rowdyruff Boys and the Power of Friendship?

Ok, so we know that the Boys have slowly changed over the course of the fic so far, and we know that the Girls have had a lot to do with that. But something I think people (including me) have overlooked in the past is the influence of their friends/acquaintances.

Brick doesn't have many people he would likely consider "friends", but he's been softening towards acquaintances quite a bit over the past year. Aside from Blossom's obvious influence, I think it started with Bubbles.

Then Julie followed Bubbles' lead and didn't take his shit.

After awhile, people just got used to him. Yeah, he's an ass with a short temper and a loud bark, but that's generally as far as he goes, at least as far as other students see. He doesn't necessarily consider anyone a friend but he has acquaintances with shared interests and he has time for his art and photography. He's in a normal high school, where things aren't nearly as cutthroat and political as JS (other than Mrs. Morbucks, of course). My best analogy is that he's like an irritable, poorly socialized dog who has been sent to doggy daycare to hang out with the calmer, elderly dogs and given enrichment. Except replace elderly dogs with nice, normal kids his age. Nevermind that he thinks he's better than everyone else. It's not exactly friendship, but I suspect it's still a lot more pleasant and straightforward than his relationships with other peers he's had. And that's a big change for a reserved, standoffish boy who takes himself very seriously.

Butch on the other hand, has Buttercup and the guys. His most vulnerable friendship is with Buttercup by far, but he genuinely values his little group of stoners. This latest chapter has made that clearer than ever. Seriously I almost cried

In some ways, Butch is actually the best socially adjusted of the Boys in their new environment, which... says a lot about Brick and Boomer. He has a close-knit group of friends and while they mostly bust each other's balls and goof around, they pretty much see uncensored Butch because (except with some interactions with BC) he says and does what he wants, when he wants. He wants people to like him, but not enough to shut up or stop pushing people's buttons. He isn't the calculating type unlike Brick and Boomer. And despite the fact that Butch isn't as friendly and (seemingly) nonthreatening as Boomer or smart and talented as Brick, the guys truly enjoy and appreciate his company. Look at 'em, caring about his well-being:

Boomer is the least changed of the Boys. He tries to do what he thinks Bubbles would want him to most of the time. But as we saw in this latest chapter, when the temptation is strong enough and he has an opportunity, he slips back into old behaviors. We never really see him spend time with anyone other than Bubbles since they've gotten together. Except for his brothers, the Girls, and people at parties, where he mostly hangs around Bubbles. As much as Boomer's circle has "expanded", those connections don't likely run deep. And there's nothing wrong with having less deep friendships, except I think a contributing factor to his relatively stunted growth is this lack of connection to others.

Boomer hides his capacity for cruelty and his lack of empathy behind a mask of behavior he knows will be seen as likeable. He holds everone except Bubbles at arms length, even though he's outgoing and gets along with everyone. He shows a much more edited version of himself compared to his brothers. We thought he had started to change when he fought impulses, even if it started out as just being for Bubbles' sake. In the last few chapters we've had a feeling that his possessiveness and jealousy were likely going to head into some dark places. And now we've started to see how dark, although, according to Brick his "jokes" get much worse. The way he thinks about Mike in this chapter (and others in earlier chapters) is so detached, much like his attitude towards the spider:

And this is a side of himself that his friends probably haven't seen, and that Bubbles hasn't seen in quite a while. This time when he chooses to mess with Mike, he is still careful to appear like he always does. While Brick works out jealousy by showing off (see prom), and Butch gets a little sullen and subdued and tends to isolate from crowds (see BC wearing Mitch's jacket and the concert), Boomer manipulates ppl while framing himself in a good light (see this incident and Will and Bubbles' anniversary).

It's like a subversion of the "I can change him" trope. Certainly, Butch and Brick have genuinely been changing internally. But it's not just because of Blossom and Buttercup. They are significant contributing factors, catalysts even, but it takes a village of genuine friends (and pseudo-friends) to help them grow and change. Brick and Butch get this experience because they don't hide their personalities as much. Unfortunately, Boomer's current approach to other people basically guarantees that he won't get that.

[sendmyresignation]

every time someone mentions the way music-related algorithms work in the best interests of major labels pushing their artists for their own gain and therefore are often embedded with bias and cut off new avenues of discovery everyone comes out of the woodwork to mention "well, anecdotally to my specific circumstance, I've discovered (5) new artists with sub-one thousand regular listeners completely detached from any information or scene or cohesive idea of taste on my weekly currated playlists so therefore algorithms actually work amazing" like what are you talking about. can we be serious please.

[sangsaracycling]

im not trying to sound like a luddite or anything but any time someone talks about using AI / chatGPT for a work/school task its like. you have teachers you have mentors you have friends you have other students you have colleagues and so on. "chat can proofread my work for me" so can another person with a fresh set of eyes. "chat can give me ideas for my essay" so can another person with their unique perspective on the subject. "chat can find me good articles to read" ask your prof . "chat wrote my paper for me" thank you for speaking the quiet part out loud stop killing the ghostwriting industry please

[buqbite]

i see you abt welt being bad with technology and raise you. welt squinting at his phone screen in the hsr logout screen because he’s confused about why the new operating system he installed isn’t working fully

SO REAL.. i just think we should consider the fact that he's an engineering genius but ALSO the emanator of autism and could easily get overly ambitious with most projects. stelle asks him to help her optimize her phone to run a game smoothly and he creates the playstation 6 in response

also. hear me out. himewelt mechanics + engineering besties

[bambiraptorx]

new variant of STEM au where I just chuck stem au Stockman into 2003 canon and see what he does there

[ihhfhonao3]

Just a reminder that fanfic authors don’t owe you anything.

We don’t owe you updates. We don’t owe you explanations. We don’t owe you more chapters. We don’t owe you a sequel. We don’t owe you a certain amount of words. We don’t owe you certain tropes or writing styles. And we definitely don’t owe you more fanfiction.

We are not content creators, we are creative writers who do this for free just for fuck’s sake. We do this in what little open time we may have, in lieu of having families and friends and jobs and obligations and of course, burnout.

It’s okay to ask for more. It’s okay to want more. We like it when you’re engaged! But the second you think that we owe you something? The second you start “expecting” something from us? You’ve forgotten one of the very baselines of fanfiction- writing it because it’s fun.

[choslut]

its crazy to see all these people coming out of the woodwork with their real opinions on how they feel about writers. like i’ve seen so many people in support of that one post, but then you go to their blog and its either blank or “i don’t post much”. please don’t speak on it then? i’m sorry but you cannot get mad when you insult the people you follow for content.

i’m not putting myself on a pedestal. if you want something, you need to work for it, whether that be writing and gaining a platform or getting a writer to hear your ideas in a way that inspires them to write it. “i want” will not get you anywhere. calling people sexual predators will not get you anywhere. saying we are butthurt will most certainly not get you anywhere.

all it does is make us less likely to want to create art for others to see. please stop. it’s upsetting.

[randomwriteronline]

Ah, what to do, what to do? When your father is cruel and uncaring and the only other man who might have once loved you is distant and stunted. When the people you owe your life to recoil with badly concealed terror over the mere fact you can speak.

Look him in his smiling eyes. Stare at the face of unsympathetic curiosity that laughs at you when you call it father. You were never his child, you useless little automaton toy! Don't be coy now, thing. You know as well as he does that there's no brain in that little gear-full head of yours, just punching cards that make you play a different song when a certain lever is moved in place of another. You are a passing fancy at best, not the technological marvel some foolish novelists might make you out to be. No matter how much you scream that you are a person, he will only ever tilt his head a little in amused condescension and blissfully crack your siblings' heads between his teeth, eyes smiling and empty like those of a dirty porcelain figurine sitting on the rotten shelf it still considers a throne.

Look him in his eyes as he turns his head away. Force him to come to term with the shame of his fake emotionlessness. He was a father once, wasn't he? He was a loving man, in his own way, wasn't he? Why now grow a conscience? Why now torture himself over his unkindly opinion of you and your kind? He looks away for he cannot handle the embarrassment of still being afraid that you are, in fact, a soul inside of a body instead of a program in a suit of armor. He looks away to spare himself the reminder that he never saw you as a living being while he allowed you the illusion of a childhood when no others would even think of it. He is honest about the hypocrisy of his nature, at least; but he fails to shake the inaction from his shoulders as he stands tall and still, and remains naught but a crumbling statue whose eyes are shielded by dust.

Look them in their eyes which grow gleaming with fright. Watch them squirm and run and hide as you fix your gaze upon them, crawling away like rats backed into the corner of the mangy cellar they've made their home and cage. The emperors of the world! There they are, scampering as far from your body as they can, afraid you have come to kill them when all you've done is introduce yourself, as it is polite to do even when those before you are undeserving of politeness. They sense in you dangers hallucinated from too much time shut off in the closed circuit off their minds; they do not think you able to control the impulses they no doubt will unleash upon you at the first sign of presumed aggression. They made you without imagining you would one day be able to make yourself, too. Now that they've realized it has always been possible, the fear that you can unmake them turns their minds to frenzied static, closing off all transmissions so that they may never risk to one day receive what you could communicate.

What to do? What to do?

Your cruel father will stumble graceless and abandoned into a night of his making, the committee will watch him sink into mindless automatism and at last relent. The man who knows he's wronged you will let you untether yourself from him, as is your wish; the tears he will shed once you're gone, to your mild surprise, are nowhere near your interest.

The door to your cold childhood home is closed forever.

It is better that way.

[technicontrastron]

Going to the museum for erotic reasons

[hymnoire]

"and you.. who are you?" ( for my boy @homelander-rp-blog for any of your muses! for apocalypse au! )

Six months ago, during the war, Gaya fell and broke. Shot in the stomach, ejected through a window that cracked open, twenty floors high. Her spine shattered, her left arm snapped like glass, and her iliac wings were pulverized. She bled out on the pavement, dead. Technology had advanced in this new chapter of the world, enough to piece her body back together, enough to merge flesh with steel and thread her nerves through circuits. Her left arm and her spine were fully replaced, bionic. Neural pathways were rerouted through a matrix of living code. Her body healed, but she was no longer just human. Half a woman, half a machine. That same technology is what tore the world apart. It began in secrecy, in government labs chasing transcendence, trying to rewrite the limits of the human condition. But the secret didn’t stay buried. Titan, a terrorist syndicate with no face and endless reach, stole the research before the government could even lie about it. By the time Titan was found, it was too late. They were out for blood, and they got it. Gaya always believed humans shouldn’t play God and she was right. Sadly, she still failed to stop what came next. The war that followed wasn’t just civil, it was apocalyptic. Titan’s stolen tech created HumanAIs, hybrids built for war, programmed to kill who inevitably start killing regular humans. What started as a silent war became a global one, spiraling out of control. Now, what's left of humanity hides. Scattered. Starving. The cities belong to the HumanAIs who operate for Titan, soulless, and ruthless. The rest of the world is a crumbling wasteland of rusted skeletons and toxic air. Humans live in exile, in otarcy, a kind of existence where survival is a full-time job and trust is extinct. Many wander the red deserts, where wind doesn’t blow and the sky forgets to rain. Gaya hasn’t awakened yet from her recovery and surgery, she still lies in a bed made of glass, intubated, in a room that’s kept hidden. A room watched over by Kaeleena.

Kaeleena stands like a ghost wrapped in ivory, a vision so pristine it feels offensive. Her dress is immaculate, the color of untouched snow, stitched from something too soft to be real, yet too perfect to be fabric. It clings and drapes with eerie fluidity, a high-collared robe that splits open like a ceremonial blade down the front, revealing thin bands of gold coiled along her ribs. Ornamental and useless, like jewelry meant for gods. Her feet are bare. Clean. Silent. She moves like she’s never touched the ground. The room she inhabits is an aberration in this post-collapse world. A sanctum of impossible luxury carved into the bones of Titan's supremacy. Glass walls rise around her like cathedral windows, refracting artificial light into dancing gold across the marbled floor. A single desk dominates the room, sleek and angular. Behind her, a massive screen displays with schematics, pulse maps, surveillance grids, and living files. One of them is labeled simply: Gayane. Cables slither from the ceiling like lazy serpents, some plugged into her desk, others drifting, whispering data and venom. The air smells of antiseptic and something older, like ozone or blood. Kaeleena leans against the edge of the desk, absurdly at ease in this sanctuary of horrors. Her eyes are pale, too pale to be fully human anymore. She was once, like all of them. When she smiles, it is with the slow satisfaction of someone who has already won. Her presence is cold. Where Gaya burned, Kaeleena freezes. She doesn’t need horns or claws. Her power is in her poise, her intelligence, and the certainty that she knows everything. Every path, every death, every betrayal. She watches John with the look of someone who already knows how the story ends. He is being escorted, not dragged or restrained, merely shadowed by the men who guard Titan’s inner sanctum. She has been expecting him. When he enters, she smiles, the curve of her lips dangerous. He asks who she is. Even if she would love to kill him, she doesn’t. Not yet. For the love of the game. “I do wonder,” she says, voice smooth as oil over glass, “if Gayane ever spoke of me, darling. I sincerely hope she did. If not... I shall be very disappointed. And I do not wear disappointment well.” They look exactly alike, Gaya and Kaeleena. Same eyes, same bone structure. But where Gaya kept the storm in her dark hair, Kaeleena bleached hers into light, so pale, almost white. Their auras, however, could not be more different. Gaya was the flame. Kaeleena, the frost.

“Who am I?” she repeats, stepping closer. Her voice is steel. “I am the villain in your precious narrative, John. Welcome to Titan. Our empire is sacred, and I…” She smiles again, this time with teeth, deranged and proud. “I am its High Priestess.” She knows exactly how far he’s come. Crossed the red deserts. Walked through cities infested with soulless machines. All for her. “Don’t tell me,” she purrs, circling him now, like the serpent in Eden, “you came all this way simply to meet your sister-in-law.” Her tone turns mocking, cruel in its sweetness. “What is it, then? Have you come to steal my beloved Gayane away from me… instead?” She leans in, eyes wide with exaggerated sorrow, a hand drifting to rest against her heart, as though to calm some violent flutter within. “I have peered into her mind, you know. I have seen the two of you, watched those fivelong years unfold like pages in a sickeningly intimate little novel. The investigations, the dates, the whispered conspiracies, the moments where death breathed down your necks and you clung to each other like lifelines. And then, of course, the sweet, sweet love-making. I love yous in Missionary aren't as cute as you think they are.” Her lips curl with disdain, like the very memory leaves a taste of ash on her tongue. Psychotic and jealous? “She loves you. More than she ever loved me. Can you fathom that?” A low, brittle laugh slips from her throat, somewhere between a sob and a knife dragged across silk. She's deranged. “It shattered me,” she says softly, with a tragic little tilt of her head. “I’m terribly sensitive.” Then, just as quickly, her gaze turns. The softness evaporates, replaced by something cold and merciless, something that cuts. “So tell me, John,” she murmurs, voice tightening. “Do you want her back… or not?” She steps back, just slightly, her hands clasping behind her back, posture impeccable, like a queen awaiting terms of surrender. “Because I am not above bargaining and I always enjoy a good negotiation. That's how we can get to know each other.”

[mercyluvsyouuu]

Reblog for bigger sample size!! /nf

Oh, also, even after the poll is over pls feel free to reblog it with ur thoughts !!! I am very curious as always

[schemelin]

every now and then i experience brief moments of self-awareness telling me to make major changes to the fusionsprunt story